Padraic Colum

The Knitters - Poem by Padraic Colum

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IN companies or loneThey bend their heads, their handsThey busy with their gear,Accomplishing the stitchThat turns the stocking-heel,Or closes up the toe,These knitters at their doors.Their talk 's of nothing elseBut what was told beforeSundown and gone sundown,While goats bleat from the hill,And men are tramping home,By knitters at their doors.And we who go this wayA benediction takeFrom hands that ply this taskFor the ten thousandth timeOf knitters at their doors.Since we who deem our daysMost varied, come to ownThat all the works we doRepeat a wonted toil:May it be done as theirsWho turn the stocking-heel,And close the stocking-toe,With grace and in content,These knitters at their doors.The CharmUisge cloiche gan irraidh

WATER, I did not seek you,Water of hollow stone;I crossed no one's acre to find youYou were where my geese lie down.

I dip my fingers and sprinkle,While three times over I say,'Chance-bound and chance-found waterCan take a numbness away.'

The numbness that leaves me vacantOf thought and will and deedLike the moveless clock that I gaze on-It will go where the ravens breed.

I empty the stone; on the morrowI shall rise with spirit alive;Gallant amongst the gallant,I shall speak and lead and strive.

In search there is no warrant,By chance is the charm shown:Water, I did not seek you,Water of hollow stone!